The Watch

Annunciation light breaks upon a chiaroscuroed stage.
Empty of armor, empty of pretense, empty of rage.
’Twas that nascent note of all crown’s clatter
dimly heard by those with ears to hear.
Now is the time to bring your spear
across the desert heat and there forge,
remake it into pruning hook, yea, reforge
bit by bit, your warring heart. Uplift
mired sinews caught in want of greatest gift.
Every branch, root and petal pleads, nay,
rejoices for the consummation of the day.

catalpa tree blossoms

poetry

Let Us with Splendored Crown

Let us pull the heavens down.
Let it lie upon the ground.
Let us stare and stammer down,
lumber¹ some new sound.
Let us, with splendored crown
laid upon our laureled brow,
take up towering tower;
make this our mighting² hour.

Then He’ll know we are greater
than our sum,
Then He’ll see a greater we.

Twill come,
thunder from a burnished sky.
Take conference with you and we.
Take no umbrage that we did not flee.
Take no pains at spired crescent valley.
Take no anguish at this our pillared city.

Take He then long and quiet slumber.
Take He then waiting and no cumber³.
Take He time while tower and number
take foot and city spread.

The Emperor Napoleon crowning himself by David

to heap together in disorder ↩
A little neologism never hurt anybody. By building their tower they will gain strength and power ↩
to hinder, obstruct, restrain. ↩

poetry

Breathe

Press your lips, your broken lips, against the dawn.
And when her rose colored breath
pulses into your mouth,
breathe,
breathe,
breathe.
Close you eyes and don’t forget to breathe.

Morning sunrise with clouds

poetry

Compline

Lovely day takes her bow
and so spills her veil upon
the hardened ground.

Her velvet fingers
slide softly over memories,
but like the ag-ed past,
she can’t quite recall
all the all.

On her birth, she spoke
of hope and never loss:
brightness, light and the turning key.
Expectations.
New eyes seeing new light.

Now her time has left.
Sputtering for breath,
she gasps for the elusive hold.

The sunsets in Texas

For Boo, a sun in the dark world.

poetry

As You Think

These words have no form;
they are not here.
What you see, you don’t.
What your think, you are wrong.
Ones and zeros or zeros and ones,
No matter their order,
no matter their matter,
they can be formed or unformed
as you think proper, descent, or.

As You Think wipeout

poetry

Little Lamb Beheld

He lay bound,
bound tightly, red cord thrice wound,
neatly tied with flourish; found
his life pooled round,
pooled round rock, stand and ground.

Turtle-dove swiftly beats
wings in frightened fleets.
Caged by poor reed,
poor song, poor lead.

Little lamb beheld
holiest by holy held;
saw with faith,
faith fulfilled.
Then his life was spilled.

Hard and poor
hands held forth,
with fluttering heart,
fluttering wing.

Ephod took and held high,
then with holy hands
spilled heart upon the rock,
upon the stone,
upon that ancient stone so newly hewn.
Then infinite infant eyes
saw Rachel where she lies.

Turtle Dove sketch © rl busséll 2018

poetry

A Hundred Guilder Strong

Remember light splayed against the night;
Etchings, a hundred guilder strong;
Men all gathered round death’s blight,
bright in deaths’ dying song.
Remember too, a side with piercéd wound
and arms outstretched in loves’ embrace.
Never forget the sponge held ‘loft to swooned;
Dagger-long swiftly slicing flesh in grace;
The sounding song upon the cobbled stone;
Victory had by him who wasn’t trundled home.
Rabbi is the son of man off his throne,
instead of grasping onto airy home.
Judge he silent stone, sand and mustard seed.
Now is heard joyous cries from all the freed.

Inspired by Rembrandt’s Hundred Guilder Etching

Oil on paper 12″ x 12″ Panel 02 of 37 after Rembrandt’s “Hundred Guilder” etching

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poetry

Horizons’ breaking

Sit by the sounding sea.
See the clouds as they whisper,
whisper, loud and quiet things.
Things that you dare not ponder.
Ponder, instead, your hand as it traces,
traces o’er lovely mountains tipped in rose;
risings and fallings n’er seen by other eyes;
ayes, yeas and yeses scratched in the sand.

poetry

Mourning is Near

The cry of the crow mauls the dawn
tearing holes in the morning light,
as the silent snow settles on the day.

poetry

dada

Dechamp stares
at stairs.
Aimmée stirs,
descending.

sketch of figure descending stairs

poetry

Man-of-war

The man-of-war floats.
in the soft cool air.
His fingers graze
leaf topped trees.
Their life slowly
withers,
leaving,
only brown hard death.

a tree in the snow tendrils from the sky

poetry

The days that could have been

The shriven tree shivered for want.
Lifting lissome limbs t’ward grey cold sky,
she remembered new hands, new thorns
and old days without tears or torn and weeping ground.
All the days that could have been. Lost. Unknown.